Masquerade

Man plays the masker even against his will:
     What most he feels he is condemned to hide 
     Or wholly smother, lest his race deride:
Wears he an open heart—it will grow chill, 
And every blast will bid its pulse be still;
     Not long his naked bosom can abide
     The freezing breath of cold unfeeling pride:
Who can, thus doomed, his destiny fulfill?
In vain the yearning heart shall fondly stretch 
     Its tendrils forth,—the frost will wither them;
While its possessor, a deluded wretch, 
     From loving, turns most bitterly to condemn;
Learning, too late, the power of self-reliance— 
That who would live the truth, must bid the world defiance.